Mira Grant - Blackout

Steve twisted to look at us. “We’re almost there,” he said. There was an odd tightness in his voice, like he wanted to say something, but knew he couldn’t get away with it. That tightness hadn’t been there before, when we were at the EIS—when we weren’t in the car.

Lowering my sunglasses enough to let him see where I was looking, I glanced toward the window. He shook his head. I tried again, this time slanting my gaze toward the dome covering the overhead light. Steve nodded marginally. We were bugged. I looked to Shaun, and saw him nodding, too. Everyone who’d come with me was a trained journalist. They all knew what that exchange had meant.

“Going to tell us where ‘there’ is, big guy, or do we get to try and guess?” Listening to Shaun trying to pretend that he was still the careless thrill seeker who’d signed up to follow the Ryman campaign was almost painful. That man was dead. As dead as the real Georgia Mason.

We were both pretending. We were just doing it in different ways.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” said Steve. “There are a few ground rules I need you to understand. I advise listening closely. Anyone violating the terms will be shot. Your bodies will never be found.”

“Wow. That’s… direct,” said Becks. “What are they?”

“First, you will not broadcast or record anything that happens after leaving this car.”

Yeah, right. “Will there be an EMP shield up to prevent it?”

“Yes, for broadcast, but we’re trusting you on the recording.” He smirked a little. “I managed to convince my superiors that you didn’t need to be searched for recording devices, mostly by showing them the list of what we never managed to take off you when we were on the campaign trail. I suppose they don’t want to be here taking your transmitters off until dawn.”

“Got it, no recording,” said Shaun. “What else?”

“Second, you will not in any way initiate physical contact with anyone who does not initiate physical contact with you.”

“Shake a hand, get shot?” asked Alaric. When Steve nodded, he looked faintly ill. “This gets better and better with every day that passes.”

From the look that crossed Steve’s face, Alaric had no idea just how bad things had gotten. I filed the expression away for later. Whatever was happening here, Steve didn’t like it. That could be useful.

“Third, you will ask questions only when given permission to do so.”

We all stared at him. Telling a carload of reporters not to ask questions was like telling a volcano not to erupt; not only was it pointless, it was likely to end with someone getting hurt. Steve sighed heavily.

“These rules weren’t my idea. I know better. Then again, you coming here wasn’t my idea.” He shook his head. “This is going to end badly. Please try to postpone that as long as possible.” Steve pulled back, and the divider slid upward again, blocking the cabin from view.

“I want to punch someone,” said Shaun conversationally.

“Do it with the hand that’s currently crushing my fingers,” I suggested. “You’re endangering my ability to type.”

Shaun let go of my hand, grimacing. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be ready for whatever’s coming.”

“He didn’t say anything about weapons,” said Becks. “Bets that they’re going to take our weapons away?”

“No bet,” said Alaric. “These pig-fucking sons of diseased dock workers aren’t going to let us out of this car armed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re really enjoying the possibilities of the English language today, aren’t you?”

“Just wait,” said Becks. “When he gets really worked up, he swears in Cantonese. It’s like listening to a macaw having a seizure.”

Alaric glared at her. She grinned at him. And the car stopped moving.

All levity fled, the four of us assuming wary positions that made our earlier tension look like nothing. Shaun put one hand on my shoulder; the other, I knew, would be going to his gun. We’d started out among friends. Now we had no idea where we were.

The car door swung open, revealing the bulky shape of Steve. He stepped aside, letting us see the man who was standing behind him.

“Hello, Georgia,” said Rick, smiling as he offered me his hands. “I know we’ve never actually met before, but I have to tell you… it’s been a long time.”

The concierge just came to tell me my parents have landed at the Seattle/Tacoma International Airport, and will be at the Agora in less than an hour. I look like hell. My hair doesn’t even bear thinking about. But oh I am so glad they’re coming.

Mahir and I have discussed what to tell them, and we’ve settled on the only thing they’re likely to accept: the truth. He’s pointed out (a few too many times) that they’re in medtech, they have contracts with the CDC, and they could be on the wrong side. I can’t find a way to explain that I don’t care. If they’re on the wrong side now, they’ll change when they find out what happened—what that bad, bad side was willing to do to me.

I have hidden the truth from them for too long. It’s time I started living up to the mission statement that Georgia Mason chose when she founded After the End Times. It’s time for me to start telling the truth.

But ah, it hurts.

—From Dandelion Mine , the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.

The lab is very quiet.

I’m not sure that I like it anymore.

I miss you, Joe.

—From the private files of Dr. Shannon Abbey, August 6, 2041. Unpublished.

SHAUN: Thirty-four

Rick had more gray in his hair than I remembered. It would make him look distinguished in the right circumstances. At the moment, it just made him look old. He was wearing a tailored suit that probably cost as much as three rescue missions into the Florida hazard zone, and his shoes were shiny and tight. He’d never be able to run from a zombie mob in those shoes.

Then again, he wouldn’t have to—not with two Steve-sized Secret Servicemen flanking him, each of them wearing their firearms openly on their belts.

“Rick?” George got out of the car. Her movements were jerky, like she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She grabbed the edge of the door as she stood. “What are you—?”

The question was cut off as the Vice President of the United States—our former colleague and one of the only bloggers to survive the Ryman campaign—swept her into a hug. She made a squeaking noise, clearly startled, and her arms stayed down, but she didn’t pull away. For George, that was practically a passionate embrace.

Becks shoved against my hip. “Hey, Mason. Move out of the damn way.”

“What?” I tore my eyes away from Rick and George. I hadn’t realized I was moving, but I apparently had; I was standing, blocking Alaric and Becks from getting out of the car. I stepped to the side. “Oh. Sorry about that.”

“Sure you are.” Becks stood, moving far enough to the side for Alaric to squeeze out, and eyed Rick suspiciously. “So that’s Richard Cousins, boy reporter.”

“Pretty sure we’re supposed to call him ‘Mr. Vice President’ now, but yeah, that’s him.” Becks was already with the After the End times when Rick joined us, but they’d only met once, at Georgia’s funeral. Rick had just been asked to stand with Ryman. He’d been in shock, and so had the rest of us.

Becks looked at him critically, finally saying, “I could take him.”

“And I could take you,” said Steve. “Let’s not get into a pissing contest. We both know who’d come out the winner, so there’s no point.”